


Transitional Transport

by MortuaryBee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlockary - Freeform, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Sherlock, OT3, Oral Sex, Other, Threesome, Trans Character, Transgender, Translock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortuaryBee/pseuds/MortuaryBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes' are a secretive bunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock!”

The resounding crack of gunfire drowned out John’s voice. The veteran ignored the ringing in his ears. He breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling gunpowder, and focused on slowing his own heartbeat as he made his way to the detective. Panic never helps.

“Shite,” John whispered as he dug out the emergency med kit. He started carrying it as a precaution after they both sprained an ankle and Sherlock broke his wrist. A few years ago they would’ve made the jump.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sarcasm dripped through pained gasps. “Yes, and I can recite my birthday, your birthday, Mary’s birthday and exactly what I’ve eaten for the past 36 hours if need be.” Normally John would have rolled his eyes, but his expression stayed solid. “Now help me u-” Sherlock’s teeth clenched around a startled grunt of pain.

“No, no. Down.” John directed calmly with a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he opened his kit and visually assessed Sherlock’s injury. “There we are.” He offered a tight, professional, smile. “How’s the wrist?”

“Fine.” Sherlock disliked being subject to John’s bedside manner. "Tell me, doctor.

What do you think of Maurice as a name? Or Martha if it’s a member of the more delicate sex?”

The attempt at humor was ignored. Sherlock closed his eyes against the pain. The adrenaline was wearing off; the feeling was significantly sharper than expected.

“Good.” The wrist was not their main concern. John grabbed Sherlock’s nearby scarf and balled it up. He pressed it to a six inch gash in the man’s chest before he replaced his hand with the detective’s. “Pressure.” Sherlock nodded, snide remarks gone. John quickly made sure the gash was the worst of it and rummaged through the kit for his emergency surgical equipment. If he had looked up John may have seen the spark of fear that flashed across Sherlock’s face.

“What’re you doing?” Sherlock’s voice was harsh and cracked. John looked him in the eye and stilled for just a moment before he resumed his work. Something was wrong. “You need stitches.”

“No I don’t.” The lie fell particularly flat as blood seeped through the scarf and past his fingers. Sherlock switched tactics. “Take me to the hospital.”

Frustration sank in past John’s cool demeanor; Sherlock wasn’t normally a difficult patient for fieldwork. “Oh, and what? I’ll just carry you, then?”

“No, you imbecile! Just-just call an ambulance!” The pitch of Sherlock’s voice rose slightly and his eyes dilated. Panic never helps.

“There’s no time.” The detective was covered in sweat and dirt. John heard Sherlock's breathing turn rapid and saw his heartbeat increase as more blood flowed onto the pavement. The doctor kept his voice calm. “This needs to be done. Now.”

“No, stop!” Sherlock tried to turn away as John untucked his button up. “You can’t just-”

“Look at me, Sherlock.” His tone left no room for an argument. Sherlock met his gaze but did not relax his body language. “There’s at least a liter of blood on the ground. You are going into hypovolemic shock and if I don’t do this now you will die.” Sherlock slowly regained control of his breathing and laid flat on the ground. He caught John’s eye and quickly looked away.

John cut the ruined shirt halfway up his friend’s chest. He let out a tired sigh at the sight of a compression vest and reigned in his anger. Of course Sherlock was hiding something possibly detrimental to his health in the middle of a case.

“When were you planning on telling me about this?” He continued to cut the fabric.

“You weren’t supposed to know.” Sherlock’s voice was calm as he stared at the sidewalk next to them. “You were never supposed to know.” John’s frown deepened.

“I’m not supposed to know?” With the silk shirt out of the way John started on the vest. The quick, cool slide of the scissors against his skin grounded Sherlock somewhat against the pain. “I’m your doctor! Major surgery falls under -”

“Major surgery?” The sound of confusion slipped past Sherlock’s incredulousness. He tried to laugh but a cough and deep sear of pain cut him off. “If anything this is evidence for the fact that I’ve never been through any reconstructive surgery in my life.”

“If this vest isn’t for surgery then what the hell is it for, Sherlock?” John’s patience wore thinner with every snip of the scissors. Sherlock grew frantic as he realized the gravity of the situation. “You still don’t know?" Sherlock fidgeted against John steady hand. "It’s self explanatory! Or at least it would be if you weren’t such an oblivious moron!”

John finally cut entirely through the vest and pressed on his friend’s hand hard with his own to finally stop the blood flow. He had to get Sherlock to calm down. “Shut-up, Sherlock.” The added pressure brought Sherlock’s attention back to John’s hands. The one that wasn’t applying pressure was pulling back what was left of the vest. Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and momentarily halted the motion. “This isn’t a lie.” If John had bothered to look he would have been met with an unusually sincere expression. John ignored the ramblings of blood loss instead and focused on his task. He quickly regained control and tore back the vest, along with the scarf and what was left of Sherlock’s shirt, in one motion. There was a moment of silent tension as John looked down at two small and proportionate breasts where he had always assumed there were pectoral muscles. His face became stoic and unreadable to Sherlock.

A fast acting dose of local anesthetic was applied to the wound before John carefully cleaned the gash and surrounding area. The tear as John peeled the sterile needle from it’s packaging was deafening to both men. Neither spoke as John quickly laid a line of subcutaneous interrupted sutures to internally close the wound.

The sound of sirens was a godsend as John tied off and cut the final external suture. He stood as the EMTs rushed in to finish dressing Sherlock’s wound. For the first time in his life, John Watson willingly walked away from an injured friend.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, John? John!”

The tall, white-haired Chief Detective Superintendent ran towards the father of two with a concerned expression. “What happened back there?” The stiff tenseness in the man’s shoulders told Greg to stop a few feet behind. “I’ll give a full statement in the morning, Greg. I’m tired.” The surgeon didn’t sound tired to the detective. He sounded defeated and lost. “Sod the statement. What’s happened with you two?” John shrugged. “Stupidity and pride got Sherlock hurt and I fixed it. Same as always.” Lestrade closed the gap and laid a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. “You know that’s not what I mean. You’re not with him and he’s...he’s cooperating. Really, honestly, cooperating. Hasn’t even taken off the shock blanket for christ’s sake. I think he needs it. It’s bloody weird if you ask me. He’s not right and no offense mate but you look like someone shot Gladstone.” John grunted an acknowledgment.

Greg nodded and tried to make eye contact. John picked lint from his sweater. “Look I know you two have this…” Greg waved his hand infront of him as though he could pull the correct phrasing to describe their unorthodox friendship out of the moonlit air. “-this whatever it is and I’m not trying to get in between that but, well” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know how hard he can be to deal with so if you ever need to vent-”

-Thanks.” John’s curt tone cut him off. “’ve already got a psychiatrist.” Lestrade nodded. “‘Course. Sorry.” The detective turned and took a few steps toward the forensics tent that had popped up during their short conversation.

“Wait I-I’ve just had a hell of a day.” John let his shoulders sag and closed his eyes for a moment. Greg sat on a nearby bench and patted the metal next to him. “I’ve got some time. Seeing as you and Sherlock have made a habit of stealing evidence forensics has a lot more to catalogue than we thought. Honestly, we should've started prepping for it a long time ago.”

John sat with an apologetic but amused grin. “Sorry...Wasn’t exactly my idea.” A snort emanated from John’s left. “Well that’s the thing with him isn’t it? You never quite know what you’re signing up for.” The two men sat in silence for a moment. “Have you ever…” John sighed with furrowed eyebrows and a downcast look. He clenched and unclenched his left hand. “Have you ever bitten off a bit more than you can chew? You know, with Sherlock?”

The uproarious laughter from the Chief Detective Superintendent startled John slightly. “He’s never been easy to deal with. Hell, you know that better than I do.” John shifted in his seat slightly and continued to stare at his hands in his lap. “No, I mean…” After a moment John decided to take a different approach. “How’d you find out he was a junkie?” The question seemed odd to the Greg. He furrowed his brows, and blinked in recollection. “I didn’t really find out.”

John gave Greg a strange look. Greg rubbed his face and sighed. “What I mean is, he was strung out when we met.” The detective shrugged next to the veteran surgeon. “It-it never really needed to be found out. Huge mess at the time. You wouldn’t have recognized him.” After a moment’s thought Greg followed up with a concerned but hesitant “He hasn’t--”

“No.” John shook his head. “No! God, no. I’d kill him. Not since Magnussen,” He was reminded of how little he apparently knew about his friend. “at least not that I know of.”

Greg exhaled in relief. “You’d know. Thank god for small miracles.” John hummed in agreement. “What’s got you so riled up then?” asked Greg. John furrowed his eyebrows and exhaled through his nose. “I’m not sure how to say this." His right hand rubbed at the back of his neck. "I’m not good at this sort of thing, really.” He took a deep breathe and let the sound of his exhale buy him time. “Just found out that my best friend isn’t,” He hesitated for a moment. He’d never had to consider pronouns when referring to Sherlock in the past and wasn’t sure which he deemed appropriate anymore. “isn’t who Sherlock’s supposed to be.”

“I don’t think he’s supposed to be anything. He’s just Sherlock. Scientist. Detective. Pain in the arse. Madman-

Woman.” The barely audible phrase stopped Lestrade mid-sentence. His eyes widened and he nodded as John’s behavior suddenly made sense. He hadn’t known about Sherlock until tonight. Greg always assumed John had either figured it out himself over the years or Sherlock had let something slip. The detective and his blogger had lived together for years, but looking back Greg realized the lengths Sherlock would go to keep himself hidden. If Greg hadn’t taken Sherlock in briefly after a particularly bad relapse he likely wouldn’t know either.

“He’s not-

“‘e is though! When it really comes down to it. Past the suits and the haughty looks and the bloody arrogance is just some,” John’s face was hot and the tips of his ears turned red with repressed anger. “Some bird.” He spat the words and Lestrade sighed.

“Does it matter?”

John laughed coldly before he raised his voice and lept off the bench to face Greg. “Of course it bloody matters! I’ve no idea who Sherlock is! And he," He threw up his hands and mockingly wiggled his fingers around each pronoun “,she, knows everything about me.”

“No.” Lestrade shook his head and stood to his full height. “No you knew that when you met him. That’s why you stuck around.” John narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. His glare didn’t falter. Greg poked an accusing finger into John’s chest. “You’re just saying that so you can be the one that’s been betrayed” John balled both hands into fists and squared his jaw. “When Sherlock’s in the damn ambulance alone after exposing a secret that as of today two people who aren’t Holmes’ know.” John’s expression softened momentarily, but Lestrade continued. “The only one that’s changed today is you, John. So get your head out of your arse, man-up an-”

The resounding crack of John’s fist against his cheekbone was deafening for a moment. Lestrade spit blood and checked for all his teeth. “Right.” He grabbed John’s wrist and swung him around faster than John was expecting. Metal cuffs clicked in place and they marched to the closest car. “I think you know your rights.” He shoved the man harder than necessary into the backseat and slammed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t ask for your help because I don’t ask for what isn’t warranted.” The paler than usual detective sat up and fixed his brother with a fiery gaze. “Aside from wires and tubes protruding from every orifice and an obnoxious stale presence in the room, I am fine.” Mycroft didn’t bat an eye at the insult. Instead he moved across the room faster than Sherlock gave him credit for. He grabbed his younger brother by the wrist and stopped him from ripping out his intravenous tube. The two men glared at each other as the monitor beeped beside them.

Sherlock’s blood pressure was low and he was still dehydrated. He was in no shape to escape Mycroft and the nurses so the younger brother silently conceded and his wrist was released. It dropped to the side.

“Yes, brother mine.” Sarcasm dripped through Mycrofts neutral expression. His patience was wearing thin and he’d barely arrived twenty minutes ago. “Your mental health has improved markedly as of late, especially during the last few days.” Arms now crossed, Sherlock scoffed at the buttons on Mycroft's ashen waistcoat. “Perhaps progress _would_ be made if I were given the basic necessities for a stable mental state.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and raised an aristocratic brow. “A compression vest is hardly a necessity.” Sherlock turned away and mumbled into his pillow, “Not for you.” It was spoken so softly the detective believed the government hadn’t heard. Mycroft paused for a moment and failed to put himself into Sherlock’s situation. This frustrated him further and his reply came exacerbated and cold. “Nor for anyone with as slender a frame as yours. No one else can-”

Sherlock snapped back around and abruptly sat up. “No one else matters!” The room spun as he continued. Lightheadedness increased from the sudden movement. He blinked and focused on the single loose thread of his brother's cuff. “I want to be whole not please the populace.”

Mycroft was especially narrow minded when worried. He sighed and briefly glanced at the screens monitoring Sherlock’s condition. Mycroft's face was phlegmatic and disenchanted. He was tired of his brother’s constant dispute with society and callously asked, “If your breasts cause you so much pain why not simply remove them? You can afford it easily and the recovery time is relatively short." He gestured towards the door with his umbrella. "Fully recovered in less than three months and excuses are no longer necessary considering recent events.”

Sherlock sighed and laid back. “You would suggest surgically removing multiple organs to become whole.” He knew he would avoid future inane inquiries by providing an honest, simple answer. He was tired of skirting questions and didn’t want to bother with any more clever retorts or rebuttals. “They’re still a part of who I am.”

The renewed impatience was evident in Mycroft’s voice. His hand gripped his umbrella harder than necessary. He bit down a string of cleverly worded insults. “Then why-

“Usually, they’re not.” It was said with the same calculated and superior tone used to tear apart crime scenes or a witness’ insecurities. Sherlock added, “And they have lent a hand on a case here or there." The younger shrugged and continued to stare at the wall. "Overall a worthy investment with minimal maintenance. Currently, they disgust me and I want them off. But as I just established I can’t therefore the majority of the time a compression vest is an absolute necessity.”

Mycroft nodded. It clearly meant more to Sherlock than he was letting on. He'd been through enough in the past week. “A surgical compression vest is being prepared for you as we speak. You’ll have to make due with that for a few weeks. When you’re healed” The older brother emphasized the last phrase and glared. Sherlock scoffed and averted his eyes. “You can use the replacement I ordered for you and return to work." Eyes met.

"Return to-

Or-" Mycroft rocked back on his heals and smiled at his reflection in black Italian loafers. He looked back to Sherlock with superiority. "You can explain to Mummy how it is you’ve torn the stitches for yet another gratuitous injury.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed and his eyes burned. “You wouldn’t.”

“I already have.” Mycroft’s lip turned up slightly at Sherlock’s betrayed and angry expression. “You can expect a visit this afternoon once you’re discharged.” He added as he made his exit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transphobic language in this chapter.

With nothing but time on his side Sherlock began to process the potential ramifications of John's revelation. He considered their last encounter and concluded that the most likely outcome was their immediate and permanent departure from each other's lives. John’s continued silence indicated he clearly wasn't able to adapt to life outside his limited understanding of the world. Sherlock had, in the past, found it best to leave those who were unwilling or incapable of acceptance behind. They simply weren't worth the effort of stringing along. Or the pain.

Sherlock had postponed this outcome as long as humanly possible and kept his unorthodox gender strictly on a need to know basis. Yet, despite his daily methodical preparation and application of a more masculine appearance for years on end a single second’s slip was his undoing. Unwilling to submit to his own spiraled thoughts he attempted a variety of erasure techniques which had unusually high success rates to no avail. John and the entire horrid incident simply refused to be deleted. Worse still, his mind replayed the event nearly every moment of silence or inactivity.

Sherlock steadfastly ignored his current reality and reorganized newspapers from the past three years in terms of highest obituary count and most unlikely cause of death. He was seventeen days into three weeks of recovery and was finally running out of tasks with which to occupy himself. Shoulders stiffened as a familiar gait ascended the stairs. He continued to rearrange newspapers but lost track of how they were supposed to be stacked. "The box by the door contains everything of yours that you've misplaced or left in my care throughout our friendship." The box had collected a thin layer of dust since he had thrown it together in a rage the day he was discharged. He kept his voice steady and his back to John.

"You're free to take it with you. Or bin it. It's of no consequence to me."

John let out an irritated sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This would be even more difficult than he’d originally anticipated. He wasn’t sure why he expected Sherlock to do anything other than jump to a conclusion that's insanity was on par with the detective himself. “So that’s it then? You’ve just decided for me?” He didn’t try to hide the blatant irritation in his voice.

Sherlock gestured vaguely towards the wall to his right. The well planned, rehearsed, and heartfelt explanation Mary helped John prepare was destroyed by the detective’s cold demeanor and dismissive tone.

“A decision wasn’t necessary.” The detective shrugged one shoulder. He could practically hear his accelerated heartbeat but resumed a calm exterior. “You made yourself clear enough during our last encounter. It’s something of a relief, really. You’ve inhibited my work for nearly a decade now.”

John’s eyes narrowed and the vein in his forehead twitched. His heart sank at the notion that their friendship was a mere inconvenience. “The only thing _clear_ is you’re just as much of a prick as you were before I found out you’re a _woman._ ” He smirked at the abrupt halt of Sherlock’s busywork. “Reassuring, that. Some sense of normalcy.”

Sherlock steeled his hurt expression and turned to face the older man. “I’ve always _loathed_ the innate predictability of normalcy.”

John scoffed and clenched his fists at his side. “What’s there to loathe, Sherlock? Secure housing? A stable income? A family? Friends?” The detached and disinterested gaze now directed towards him only fueled John's anger. “Yeah, you know, _more than just the one?”_ Sherlock squared his jaw and narrowed his eyes. The doctor was determined to get a real reaction. If he couldn’t the detective’s hasty conclusion might as well be confirmed. “Just get the stick out your shim hole-” The taller man’s brows furrowed in repressed anger. The shorter stepped into his space and jabbed a finger into his chest. “And maybe try being _normal_ for once in your life you cocksucking cunt-”

Sherlock’s fist slammed into John’s jaw. When he heard John's weight hit the ground he sighed as if the older man was hardly worth his time. “I don’t require companionship from dogs.” The satisfaction of the surprised and shocked expression that now sat level with his knees suppressed any feelings of guilt. Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and looked down at the other man. “What little purpose you have left to your miserably monotonous existence is by extension of _my_ accomplishments.” He kicked the toe of his shoe into John’s stomach and smirked at the resulting dry heave. He continued in a snarl. “You’re nothing without me.” The doctor shut his eyes and steeled himself against the grating grain of truth in the insult. He inhaled, opened his eyes, and let out a dry bark of a laugh.

"Bullshite." John scrambled to catch his breath and sit up. He wiped his bruised pride and the blood running down his cheek away with the back of his hand. There was a minor laceration on the doctor's forehead from where he hit the coffee table. Sherlock had never hit him with so much force.

"You’re the most predictable mad _woman_ I know-" John threw any feelings of guilt or regret ahead of him. He used the coffee table and couch to propel himself up and slammed his shoulder into Sherlock's gut which sent them both crashing to the floor and into the kitchen table.  "-and I’m married to one." A broken beaker on the far side of the room went ignored.

Sherlock stared up at John with an effortlessly unperturbed expression. The misused pronouns had a habit of ringing around his head. The sting never quite stopped so he decided to pass it on. “I’m fluent in Serbian, French, Mandarin, Norwegian, Swedish, Italian, Spanish, and Latin opposed to your pathetically destitute grasp of the king’s English.” His mouth curled to a snarl. “History will remember you as my _blogger_. At best a sophomoric dilettante blindly following the true virtuoso like a loyal pet. And at worst a sad pathetic excuse for a man who once contributed to an immeasurable greatness.” His eyes burned with a renewed fire as his friend became visibly hurt. Scattered newspapers still fluttered to the floor beside them.

John scoffed against the burn of degradation. “What good is history to a dead man?”

“Currently, I’m a master of deduction. The professionals I consult for are a joke to me. I graduated from Cambridge-” The taller man shoved the shorter off roughly and settled his knees on either side of the man's hips. “-before you knew your capitate bone from-” He punched the tiles next to John's head hard enough to make them crack and ignored the sharp sting that cut into his knuckles. “-your metacarpophalangeal joints.” A spark of fear ignited in the doctor before it was quickly overpowered by a growing heat at the base of his groin. John let out a shaky breath as he eyed the splintered ceramic less than a centimeter from his skull.

“I wrote my first manuscript before you had your first nocturnal emission.” Anger mixed with arousal. Sherlock shifted his weight and pulled John close by the collar. “And you’re _five years_ my elder.” There was something distinctly primal past the malice in John's eyes that sent a chill down Sherlock's spine.

John took advantage of Sherlock’s momentary lapse in concentration and grabbed his wrist. John pistoned his hip into the other's thigh to flip them. Stable with his knees under Sherlock’s thighs, he wrapped his hands around the detective's neck. Sherlock’s defiant words continued. “And I am _not._ ” John slid forward as his grip tightened. “Nor have I ever been.” Both knees rested on either side of Sherlock's hips. The taller man's thighs weighed down on his own. Bleeding knuckles gripped at strained hands. The words were gasped. "A woman."

Sherlock pressed his arse down to the floor and ignored the arousal threatening to take control of his better sense. John leaned forward further and watched the younger man’s eyes widen and his pupils dilate. He ignored his own labored breath. His eyes darted in shock between Sherlock’s face and crotch after his budding erection brushed against the soft plastic of the other man’s packer through his trousers. Incomprehension and confusion refueled anger. John still knew nothing about the man whose life he held. He squeezed harder. This cut off the detective’s ability to speak entirely.

John’s voice came labored and rough. “Then what the bloody hell are you?” His arms shook with restraint and Sherlock’s ankles wrapped around his lower back. Sherlock’s larynx bobbed uselessly above John’s fingers and he writhed underneath the heavier man. John waited and watched as the other man’s calculating expression slowly gave way to panic. While contemplating Sherlock’s murder John fully realized he could never leave him. He laughed to himself softly. He just barely released his hold as lips tinted blue and eyes rolled into their sockets.

Splotches of color and light blinded the detective to the older man’s expression. The dull ringing in his ears subsided as his blood filled with endorphins. Sherlock gasped for air and arched his back against the floor. His torso pressed into John’s chest. That was significantly closer to danger than Sherlock had expected to get which for some reason gave him a warm sense of pride for the doctor. He took a few frantic breaths and glanced to the left. His lips twitched up slightly before he refocused on John. The detective settled nicely into the residual body high as his cracked voice panted, “I’m Sherlock Holmes you fatuous narrow-minded dolt.” His hand wrapped itself around John’s wrist and secured its hold. The other tangled itself into the John’s short hair and pulled the broader man into an oxygen deprived kiss. The juxtaposition of Sherlock’s passionate embrace to his previous cold demeanor took John by surprise. His grip tightened instinctively.

He leaned into the kiss momentarily before he grabbed Sherlock’s hair and yanked his head away. The detective emitted a surprised but delighted groan at the sensation while John spluttered, “I’m married!” and slammed into the wooden cabinet beside them. He winced and slid to the floor in-front of Sherlock’s kitchen table. His brow furrowed with a sharp twinge of guilt as his cock throbbed with interest.

“Oh,” John’s head snapped up and his eyes focused on his wife. Mary leaned against the back of his old chair with her arms crossed and an amused expression on her face. Sherlock, still pinned under the broader man’s weight, grinned at the ceiling. His chest shook in silent laughter. “Don’t stop on my account.” Mary winked at her flustered husband.


	5. Chapter 5

Embarrassment overshadowed any residual anger and a deep red rose to John’s cheeks. He looked away from two sets of prying eyes and swallowed repeatedly. He shifted his weight off of his friend and addressed Mary. “I- How long have-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and impatiently hauled himself to his feet. “It is well beyond your capabilities to successfully cheat on either of us. She permitted the kiss from behind your blind spot.” He swirled around and took a step towards his room. "Now! When you've completed your identity crisis," He called over his shoulder, "I'll be in my bedroom." He paused to smile cordially at Mary. She returned his sentiment and crossed over to John. Mary sat down next to John as Sherlock rounded the corner towards his room.

Sherlock used the few moments to himself as efficiently as possible. Instead of mentally preparing himself for something entirely new Sherlock resolutely ignored the pounding in his chest. He unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, and undid his trouser button with the other. They fell to the floor and he threw his shirt to the side. He ripped the velcro seam on his binder open and pulled the trousers off his ankles. The left leg caught on his foot and sent him tumbling to the mattress next to him. His duvet muffled a curse and he yanked the binder over his head. He pulled off his boxers and leaped from the bed to search for an appropriately sturdy but discrete harness for his flaccid packer.

With his cock firmly in-place he rummaged through his sock drawer for a pair of briefs that could hold him without broadcasting his erection from the start. He found his bullet vibrator, shrugged, and slipped it into the space between the plastic rod that stiffened his packer and his clitoris. He’d nearly forgotten about that modification and wondered whether it would get any use.

He decided on a pair of black Y fronts and tucked himself to the side while he pulled on a more comfortable sports-tank binder. He settled into the pillows and set the bullet controller on the bedside table closest to him.

He grabbed his phone and managed to distract himself by getting Mycroft in check in an ongoing chess game when he noticed John had crossed the threshold of his bedroom. John looked considerably calmer than before and Sherlock let some of the unconscious tension release from his shoulders. The two men made eye contact and the gravity of the situation hit them simultaneously. They looked away.

Sherlock placed his phone to the side and tapped his forefinger swiftly against the nightstand. John brushed his right hand up and down the back of his neck. A slow blush crept it’s way across Sherlock’s cheek. Mary emerged behind her husband. She shoved him off center with her hip and pulled off her blouse in one decisive movement.

John fell diagonally across the other man and his head landed parallel to the detective’s. They made eye contact again. Apprehension gave way to humor and John broke into a grin. Sherlock let out a low chuckle and John followed suit.

John licked his lips and watched the Sherlock’s curl into a smile. John nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip and captured him in a slow deep kiss. Not one for patience, Sherlock rolled himself into John’s lap as soon as he felt a heavy hand on his hip.

They felt the bed dip as Mary crawled to their side. She was in a cotton bra and matching panties both trimmed with a soft white lace. She hummed in approval at the two men and reached in-between them. "This hardly seems fair."

Sherlock smirked in agreement and between the two of them John's shirt was undone in a matter of seconds. John chuckled lightly as Sherlock pulled him up to sit and Mary took the shirt from his shoulders. "That's unfair?" Sherlock pushed him to his back and he lifted his hips. "It’s two against one. I’ll be lucky to make it home." John exclaimed as the pair rid him of his trousers, socks, and shoes in one calculated movement.

"Who said you were leaving?" The detective quipped as he made his way down the doctor's chest. To John’s left Mary twisted a nipple and he took in a sharp breath. “We’ve got lives.” John said as he arched into his wife’s skilled hand. Sherlock knelt at the edge of the bed. The words came broken and breathless as Sherlock mouthed his cock through his boxers. “Can’t just stay holed up in your bedroom ‘til we’re old and grey.”

The hand that hadn’t entangled itself into soft brunette curls made its way to the front of Mary’s underwear. The pad of John's thumb slid against soft cotton and pressed into her clit in a swift circular motion. The tip of his finger teased cotton between her slick lips and she initiated a passionate kiss.

“Why not? You’re already greying.” stated Sherlock. The hypothetical was becoming alarmingly well structured, and insulting, so John broke away from Mary. He opened his mouth to answer only for his response to die on the tip of his tongue. His head hit the pillow when Mary pushed him flat to the bed. Mary, now without underwear, knelt over his chest. Sherlock pulled John’s dick from his boxers and stroked his bare cock for the first time when he noticed the bed shift.

Sherlock quickly divested John of his boxers. They were damp with precum and sweat. Mary smirked and shifted up the bed until her knees were just above her husband’s head. John scrambled for a grip in the sheets and thrust against Sherlock’s teasing tongue. Mary leaned further over her husband and twisted at the hips to open Sherlock’s nightstand.

Sherlock felt the bed dip and promptly lost track of what he was doing. He put a hand on Mary’s hip and knelt behind her. Mary closed the drawer, bent upright and pressed her back flush with Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock smirked over Mary’s shoulder at John and wrapped his other hand around her middle. Sherlock's hand slid over a small patch of pubic hair and copied the John’s exact movements from earlier.

John’s lip curled into a restrained smile. “Bastard.”

The detective winked over the assassin's shoulder. “Observation is my strong suit.” Mary sighed and ground her arse into the Sherlock’s prick. She pulled on his hair hard enough to dislodge his mouth from her throat and handed him the bottle of flavored lube she found in his nightstand. “Don’t let him come too soon, yeah?” His eyes widened at the implication and he nodded in agreement.

Mary felt her husband’s hands slide up and around her thighs to squeeze her arse. The doctor’s pupils dilated in something akin to fear. He opened his mouth to ask for clarification but Mary was determined to keep him distracted. She shifted her weight and lowered herself. John bent his neck up to meet her and promptly flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit. Mary inhaled sharply and pulled his head back flat against the pillow. “It’s just Sherlock. What’s the worst that he could do?”

As the two above him settled into a steady rhythm the detective squeezed a bit of strawberry lube in the palm of his right hand. Sherlock originally bought it to feed a particularly aggressive bacteria he was cultivating under the couch. Flavored lubricant tended to have a higher sugar content than that designed for penetrative intercourse. Sherlock’s voice was significantly more confident than he felt. “If I were so inclined, from this position I could likely-”

“--Not helping.” Mary chastised, somewhat out of breath. John leisurely pushed two fingers into her pussy as his tongue circled her clit.

“Right.” Sherlock slowly massaged some of the tension out of the other man’s leg. His lip quirked up as his hand slid from John’s thigh through sandy blonde hair to grip his cock. “Helping.” Sherlock stiffened the tip of his tongue and flicked it just under the head. He dragged his tongue along the slit of John’s cock as John slowly pushed into his mouth.

Sherlock pulled back to lick his lips and tugged on John’s prick roughly with his unlubricated hand. John hissed in discomfort as Mary tightened her thighs. She let out a soft cry and pushed John’s fingers further inside her as her orgasm intensified. When she looked down, eyes glazed, she immediately knew something was wrong. John was usually more boneless than she was after she took control. He was pushing against her thighs and shifted uncomfortably underneath her.

Mary glanced over her shoulder and saw Sherlock, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, with one lubricated hand at the base of John’s cock. Sherlock was clearly out of his depth and Mary winced with her husband when Sherlock lowered his head as she suspected the detective was using too much teeth. Mary shifted her weight off of John, who immediately gasped for air. Mary slid off the bed to crouch beside Sherlock. “Use the damn lube,” exclaimed John.

The slight oxygen deprivation made John’s prick swell. Sherlock jerked his hand away and gave John an affronted look. “There’s no reason to shout.” John’s bit back an acidic reply as his pupils dilated further. He let out a breath of relief as he stared down at Sherlock and Mary’s joint effort. Mary placed her hand over Sherlock’s and guided him as they spread lube over his semi erect penis. Sherlock’s breath came shallow and rapid. “There will be,” added Mary with a wink.

“Less teeth, but tighter.” Mary covered her teeth with her lips and took the majority of John’s cock in her mouth. She pulled back to focus on the head and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, still wrapped around the base of John’s cock, and pulled their hands up tight. She pressed Sherlock’s thumb against his slit and John thrust repeatedly through their fingers into Mary’s mouth. Sherlock was embarrassingly close to orgasm as Mary pulled off and gestured for him to do the same. He licked his lips and watched John’s dick quickly disappear and reappear beneath his foreskin before trying to imitate Mary. His second attempt was a noticeable improvement.

John groaned and he gripped Sherlock’s hair to slow the pace. Sherlock’s eyes closed and he breathed through his nose. “That’s it, mate.” said John. Sherlock’s unoccupied hand slid over his own cock and he rocked against it before slipping a hand under his briefs and teasing his clit. Mary’s hand replaced Sherlock’s on John’s dick as Sherlock teased the tip with his tongue. Sherlock’s mouth met Mary’s hand as she dipped lower and drew one of John’s balls into her mouth. Mary removed her hand from her husband’s cock and rubbed the pad of her thumb against his perineum. John groaned at the indirect prostate stimulation and thrust upwards.

Sherlock shifted to the side so he could sink further down on John’s prick with each bob of his head. Sherlock’s hand met his mouth in the middle as the doctor’s head fell back to the pillow. Sherlock watched the muscles in John’s thigh twitch as he took John’s cock in faster. He felt a sharp tug in his hair and groaned as Mary pulled him off John’s cock. She pulled Sherlock in a deep kiss. Mary licked a strip from the base of John’s dick to just under the head and back. John cursed at the sight and licked his lips. Sherlock let John fuck his way into his mouth and pressed his tongue to John’s slit.

Mary realized that for now there wasn’t much more she needed to teach Sherlock and decided to let them finish together. Unbeknownst to either man she snapped a quick picture before gathering her clothing. Remarkably well put together less than a minute later, she left the flat before they bothered to look up.

John’s breath was coming in pants and he gripped the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Sherlock was dizzy trying to keep up with the quick shallow thrusts. He matched his movements over his clit to John’s pace and groaned over the older man’s cock.

John’s eyes shot open and he did his best to warn Sherlock of his impending orgasm. All that came out was a garbled set of syllables but it got the point across. Sherlock pushed harder into his own hand and stroked John through a startlingly intense orgasm. The sight of thick cum shooting across John’s chest drove Sherlock over the edge. He sucked at the edge of John’s thigh and pushed his hair into John’s comforting hand as he rode out the aftershocks.

After a moment of exhausted panting Sherlock’s knees popped as he stood up. His back ached. John took a moment to reflect. This wasn’t what he came for originally but he couldn’t exactly complain. “How long’s it been since you,” He paused hoping the silence would complete the sentence for him. “I haven’t,” answered Sherlock still breathless. John’s brow furrowed. If he had known he would’ve made it more of an event. “Not ever? Not even in Uni?”

“No.” He laid next to John and stretched across the bed. John subconsciously rubbed at Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock subconsciously leaned into it. They both stared at the ceiling. Sherlock reflected on past chances he never took. “Never seemed to amount to much.” He decided to take a new one. In the safe post-orgasmic haze Sherlock decided to let his voice stay a bit higher pitched than he’d normally allow. The result was startling but not entirely unexpected for John. “I’ve always,” Sherlock paused and considered how to phrase it properly. “preferred masculine pronouns from a young age. They’re an advantage socially, and it gave me an excuse to become more independent at a younger age than if I had stuck with my original assignment from birth.”

John’s fingers stopped and they both became aware of the slight movement. Neither moved away. “So,” John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re a man. But in a woman’s body?” Sherlock sighed. He itched for a cigarette. “That’s an oversimplification but in short I suppose that's close enough. Some days I feel more similarly to a man than a woman but that’s not to say the opposite isn’t true on occasion.” He played with the zipper on the edge of his pillowcase to distance himself from the situation. Confessions were easiest from afar. “Most of the time,” He swallowed and analyzed the wallpaper beside his window. “I’m neither.”

“You know,” John said with renewed frustration. “If you aren’t going to take this seriously-”

“I am!” exclaimed Sherlock. “I-” Sherlock sat up with his back to John and put his feet on the floor. John’s arm extended to where Sherlock laid a moment before. Sherlock scratched at the back of his neck. “I’ve never entirely melded with either gender.” The only other person he’d told is Mycroft and that hadn’t turned out well either. “Where I’m sure you have a solidified inherent sense of “maleness” in you I have a similarly complete sense of...well,” he gestured dramatically as if understanding could flow from his hands to John’s brain. “Nothing.” With a strangely new sense of relief Sherlock continued, “It’s not something I’ve really expressed aside from tonight.”

“I can see why.” John said somewhat under his breath. He continued, louder, “What do I do then? What do I call you.” John could see the barest hint of a smile touch Sherlock’s lips as Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. “The same you’ve always done. If I thought it meant anything important I would’ve told you a long time ago.”

John shook his head and dragged his own feet off the bed and to the floor opposite Sherlock. John stepped towards the ensuite bathroom on legs that felt like noodles. “I think I can do that well enough.” He laughed. Leave it to Sherlock to think gender didn’t have any real meaning. “Anything else I should know?” He called out from the next room.

Sherlock considered telling him that Mary had taken up her old profession but decided it wasn’t his place. He made a mental note to discuss it with her further the next time they met. He also considered extending an offer to stay the night. But John was dreadfully attached to his children and Sherlock was nearly two hours behind in his own work.

Sherlock raised his voice to be heard over the running shower. “I still smoke cigarettes.” John rolled his eyes even though no one could see. “I’m not that unobservant. You reek of them constantly.”


End file.
